Secrets in the Shadows
by Snowangel02
Summary: Secrets in the Shadows (SinS): A story of wealth, power, love, self-worth, and a whole lot of conspiracies. Everything isn't always as it seems Prologue 4: Sylvester tried to say something—anything, but he couldn't find the words. There he stood, dominating over all of them—a boy, this golden enigma with power hovering over his shoulders like an ape. Off Haitus R&R
1. Prologue 1 of 5

Secrets in the Shadows

Prologue 1: Death Comes Slowly

"Where is he?" yelled the silhouette figure surrounded by what looked like guards in the room.

"I have no idea what you are talking about, toad," said the other figure in a surprisingly calm and centered voice on the count of standing alone.

"**Don't mess with me, Conner!" **The figure barked with pure venom that sent a bone chilling shiver that went through the young cub's spine, "I know you're smuggling that _disgusting_ child of yours somewhere in this pathetic excuse for a house; now where is he!"

The lone figure's shadow visually tensed up in rage of hearing someone calling his son disgusting. Stepping out of the shadows stood the young cub's father, Conner Cooper; a tall and lean raccoon wearing his usual tattered attire; a torn blue shirt, a frayed yellow sweater vest with black pants and dark blue dress shoes. The young cub looked a lot like his father, save for the color of his eyes—Conner's were amber brown, while his a milk chocolate shade.

"Now look here, you slimy little toad," snarled Conner—he had much tension in his voice, "Barging into my home unannounced and insulting me is one thing, but when you insult my son, that crosses the line!"

"Oh please," the other shadow snorted, "like you have the guts to—"

The person never got the chance to finish, for Conner had connected his fist with his face. The figure fell down with a mighty _thump_. In an instant, one of the guards had grabbed Conner with his brute strength and pinned him against the dark wall by the neck.

"You insolent little…" The figure grumbled, getting up from the ground and rubbing his cheek from the impact. Getting his composure back, the mysterious man walked over to Conner, who was currently struggling in the meaty death hold.

The room was very dark, so the young cub couldn't see anyone's face but his father's. "Now I'm going to ask you one more time, Conner," the man announced before leaning in Conner's face. The only thing the cub noticed was the man's dark blue cloak covering his face, "Where. Is. Your. Son?"

However, instead of giving up and spilling the beans like as planned, Conner merely spat his saliva at the cloaked figure which landed right between his eyes. The man's eyes widened in rage, yet in a flash, ceased as he turned around and took his handkerchief out and started to wipe his face, "If that is your choice Conner, then so be it," he looked back at his men who had on anxious faces, "You can have your fun now, boys."

Before he could even blink, Conner was thrown to the ground with such brute force, the air knocked right out of his lungs. Soon, the brutal and unnecessary beating by the muscular guards began and, unfortunately, they weren't easing up anytime soon.

"Oh and just so you know," he heard the evil man say, "I am not a toad, you wretched creature."

The middle-aged raccoon took one final glance at the closet where his son resides through his tear and blood stained eyes. The look of horror and fear on his face made Conner's heart ache.

"_I'm so sorry, my son,"_ Conner thought as he staggered forever into unconsciousness, _"Please forgive me…"_

* * *

><p>While wiping his face, the frog watched his men as they beat Conner to death.<p>

"_Serves him right…"_ The frog thought. He himself didn't have much compassion for the younger generation so it is only logical to not have children therefore he can never understand how that raccoon can be so foolish enough to wrist his own life for a measly brat. He didn't believe in love either; he cannot commit to just one woman for he craves many and, as a result, slept with many as well. He was sure he got several women pregnant, but he didn't care—he never did nor does he ever want to.

Even as he wiped the disgusting substance that came from the raccoon off his less than decent face, the dastardly man could still feel the vile saliva. Just thinking of Conner spitting in his face enraged the man to no end. He felt like unsheathing his short sword and slicing his throat and watch as his dies from blood loss or lack of oxygen. _"That'll have to wait,"_ he thought, _"First I have to find the brat." _

With that, he made a quick order to the highest-ranking men below him, "Lieutenant! Third seat! A moment if you will." Before he knew it, a tall balled eagle draped in a yellow cloak and an average height gray wolf draped in a red cloak stood before the short frog.

Saluting, the eagle was the first to speak "We await your command, Captain..." The eagle cut himself short, remembering not to use any names for it might arouse conflict if there are any survivors.

The two guards waited patiently as they watched their captain take out a smoke pipe and started to fill it with tobacco, "Tell me, lieutenant, how is Conner's 'treatment' going along?"

"Oh, well sir; the boys are doing what you ordered, and it seems they are having a lot of fun, considering that the raccoon has lost consciousness several minutes ago," The lieutenant chuckled while scratching the back of his head. He looked amused on the outside, but inside he felt sick to his stomach. He wouldn't have agreed with any of this if he didn't desperately need the money for his daughter's medical bill. The third seat wolf wasn't feeling any better.

"Not surprised," the frog said before inhaling and exhaling a puff of smoke, "they haven't had much action recently, with the others taking on further jobs such as this one."

The young wolf gulped, "there are other jobs such as this one?" he asked. There was a slight quivering in his voice which, unfortunately, went noticed.

"Why of course; there were a few others before this one, why?" the captain sounded very amused at this.

"Oh, uh, noting sir; just wondering." The wolf lied. He had a sick feeling coursing all throughout his body since they first started this secret assignment. When he heard that the hirer wanted them to kill a middle aged man and his young son, he felt very queasy; when the hirer said that he wanted both their deaths to be slow and painful, he nearly threw up right then and there. Being only eighteen years old, the young wolf was very disturbed by these bloodshed missions. All the while, he couldn't help but take pity on the two people they were assigned to kill especially since they lived in the slums.

"Is everything okay, Third Seat?" the voice of the calm and collected lieutenant made the young wolf snap back to reality.

"Huh? Oh, nothing! Nothing lieutenant… I was just wondering where the child was as all." The young wolf chuckled nervously.

"Really; Is that so? Because the look on your face says otherwise." The frog said after he took another swig of his pipe.

Seeing the boy tense up proves the frog's assumption was correct, "And you expect to become captain with that attitude?" the frog laughed.

This infuriated the wolf. How _dare_ he insult him like that! "And what does my attitude have to do with anything!" the wolf spat.

This bark caught the attention of some of the guards who were watching the others still pound on Conner's possibly dead body. The Captain's hearty laugh ended to an abrupt halt. He stared up his lower ranked comrade with such a cold glare, the wolf's heart almost stopped. It felt as though the captain's eyes punctured a hole through the wolf's soul.

"**You better hold your place, boy,"** the man said with what seemed like the very essence of venom, "just because you're my third seat doesn't mean I'll hesitate to slit your throat if you talk to me with disrespect," his eyes—without moving his head—turned to the quiet eagle before him, "That goes for you too, _lieutenant_."

The bald eagle merely nodded.

"And as for your attitude, boy," the man began, "Attitude determines altitude,' and in these hard times if you take pity on these degraded slum dogs, you will never wear a blue cloak. Therefore I suggest you start acting like a ruthless justice crusader, preferably, me." The frog smiled with the pipe in his mouth.

The Captain's comrades sweat-dropping at his failed comedy.

"Now back to the subject at hand," the man said as he exhaled a puff of smoke, then preceded to fill is pipe with tobacco once more, "It has taken us ninety minutes to talk Conner into telling us where his son is…yet, I have yet to find him and it is irritating me to no end. Lieutenant, your squad has been searching this run-down house, haven't they?"

"Oh y-yes they have, sir, but they still haven't seen the child."

"Miserable brat," The frog snarled with a puff of smoke escaping his mouth, "How hard is it to find one damn child in this small place–!" The captain stopped at mid sentence as he heard a small sound. His gaze turned towards the small closet in the corner–how that escaped his attention was beyond him.

"Um, what are you looking at, captain?" the Lieutenant asked.

A disturbing, sinister smile crawled across the man's silhouette face. He raised his slimy arm and pointed one webbed finger towards the direction in question.

"There," a disturbing snicker escaped his mouth, "There is where our little ring tailed rat is."

* * *

><p>It all happened so fast in the little cub's eyes; from bouncing on his father's lap to fearing for his life, hiding in the small closet he is now in. He could still hear his Father's trembled words through his ears:<p>

"_Hurry, son, get in the closet and don't come out until these men are gone."_

"_But daddy–"_

"_Don't worry, I'll explain everything once the bad men are gone." _

"_But, why, daddy, Why me?"_

"_Because, my son, you are a very important person they don't want around, now hurry get inside!"_

Those were the last words he heard his father spoke. Ever since he was in the tiny storage room, little chocolate eyes has been peeking to make sure his father was all right, but now he has deeply regretted it. What started out as an innocent argument, ended in homicidal maniacs brutally beating his beloved father to death. What's even more horrendous is that they were wearing guard cloaks and even worse than that, the person leading this pointless assault was a royal captain and his comrades.

That captain frightened the young raccoon cub most of all; ever since he broke open the door, he has been nothing but shouting and yelling at both his father and his guards and spewing vile words about him. Of course the cub didn't know why; he has always been such a good and obedient child, he never thought someone could hate him with such a passion.

'_Why does he hate me, I didn't do anything to upset him did I? Is that why daddy hid me? Is that what daddy was going to tell me before the bad men came?' _He sniffed_ 'Am I going to die? Am I–' _

"There." The single word stopped the cub's thinking process. Being cautious–and terrified– the young boy peeped through the little crack in the door. Through it, he saw a webbed finger pointing right at him, "there is where we'll find our little ring tailed rat."

The boy's eyes went wide, his body paralyzed with fear as he realized just how he found him. He knew where he was now and the only the only thing that ran through his mind was _I'm going to die. I'm going to die. I'm going to die._

"You heard the captain men, investigate!" He heard some one say. The boy started to panic; there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, all he could do was wait until they find him.

'_No, I can't die– if I do, daddy would've died for nothing!'_

The subconsciously started to back up and tripped on something and fell right through the floor. Opening his eyes, from all the dust that was floating around, he found himself shrouded in dust, cobwebs, and ever lasting darkness.

"Where…am I?" The young boy murmured

"You heard that, he's in there!"

Before his mind could process anything, the door was kicked off its hinges by none other then the short, silhouette figure of the captain himself.

The young boy was frozen stiff; those cold brownish-silver eyes looked that of a deranged monster. Luckily for the young cub, the door covered the large hole he fell into. The cub closed his eyes shut to see nothing else.

"I-I don't see anyone, sir." A voice said.

"Looks can be deceiving, Third-seat." Another voice replied.

"Where are you, you sniveling little slum rat?" a mock-sincere voice spoke–the captain's voice.

He didn't dare answer, but that was another mistake he made.

"SPEAK, RAT!" He heard the connection of fist and wall. Fierce breathing was escaping the mysterious man's nostrils.

That's when the raccoon made his next mistake; it was small and barely audible, but he made a noise that inwardly escaped his mouth. He clasped his hand over his mouth to prevent any other noise to escape it, but he knew the damage was done.

Silence; that's all he heard–safe for the crackling of fire from the chimney and candles. But the minute the cub started to relax, metal pierced through the wooden door right in front of him–reflecting his image. He saw his wide, dilated eyes in the steel sword and the salty tears escaping them.

"Let's go." Was the last thing he heard from the heartless man before footsteps made their way to the door. The boy let out a shaky sigh of relief and crawled into a feeble position and silently cried his eyes out. The he heard a noise– a mixture of crashing and crackling…like fire. The smell of burning wood was inhaled in his nostrils and tasted on his tongue.

The boy begun to panic, he desperately tried to push the door off the make-shift entrance, but suddenly collapsed on him. He let out a cry of pain from the impact of the burning wood on his back. He cried for help but he knew it was energy wasted. He tried to break free but the carbon dioxide he was breathing in was getting to him. His eyesight became blurry and he let out one more cry for help so loud, the sound wave from it broke the already fragile ceiling and collapsed on him and thus, knocked him into oblivion…


	2. Prologue 2 of 5

**Sly Cooper and all the characters/themes/ideas associated with its franchise © Sucker punch.**

**All other characters/themes ideas © to me**

* * *

><p>Secrets in the Shadows<p>

Prologue 2: Hospital bound

'_This day couldn't get any worse.'_

It was a simple task, as simple as one can get on their first day on the job–but for Damica, it was anything but. It was her first official task on her first official day of work; all she had to do was give a few of the elderly their daily sponge baths––not too difficult a task, given that the old cooperated. Yet once again, her incompetence got the better of her and ended in miserable failure.

Now here she is, sitting chair adjacent to the head doctor's office–her gown soaking with soapy water solution. Curtains covered the door's windows, ceasing any opportunity for one to look inside, but the muddled noise of two arguing voices––one male, the other female in there native tongue––gave away all that went on. Damica's head collapsed in her lap. She groaned at the word 'lawsuit' being thrown around.

"I am an idiot," her thick French accent whispered.

She remembered the very moment the doctor, Mr. Kaczynski, discovered her little 'accident'. The look of utter shock on his face, the sound of his booming voice demanding the culprit, the feel of his ice-cold blue eyes burning through her own––to say she feared for her life would be an understatement. What was she thinking revealing herself to be the cause of the atrocity! If it weren't for Maria, Damica might've joined the other patients in the emergency room.

_Maria_; she felt it ironic how the women that loathed her would possibly end up saving her a trip to the ER. Sure she was the only one of Kaczynski's employees that could calm his inner beast, but why of all people would she help her–after all wouldn't Maria enjoy seeing battered and bruised?

Damica was brought back to reality by the unexpected sound of…nothing. '_Nothing?'_ Damica's ears twitched at the unusual sound of silence. Curiosity got the best of her as she quietly got up and tiptoed her way to the doctor's door and pressed her skull against it. It was faint, but she could hear the low moaning of a feminine and masculine voice. Damica tried to convince herself she was confused, but deep down in the back of her mind she had quiet an uneasy feeling of what was going on behind those doors. Fortunately (according to her) before her mind could assess the situation any further, the door flew open hitting the side of her face, and out appeared a tall middle-aged German she-wolf.

"Ouch," she whimpered looking up to see her supervisor Maria inhaling tobacco from her cigarette through her lipstick smeared mouth. Damica shuddered at the thought of why the lipstick was anywhere but her mouth.

"Get up," Maria ordered blowing the tobacco at Damica's face. The young she-wolf did as ordered but staggered back as the blood rushed to her head from standing up too fast. Irritated, Maria puffed out another breath of smoke Damica's way, "Typical," she muttered, "your lucky I'm nice; if it weren't for me, Kaczynski could have fired you…or worse."

Damica's face lit up to that "Does this mean I'm off the hook?"

"No."

"…Oh…"

Maria sighed bitterly as she began walking down the hall toward another section of the hospital. Damica followed suit, "As punishment, you've been assigned to the E.R." Damica didn't see how that would be considered a punishment, but she kept her thoughts to herself lest she gets into more trouble. "There you'll be assigned to a new patient; he's just a kid––around seven or eight years old, got caught up in a house fire; survived obviously, but is still traumatized about the whole thing, here––"She handed Damica a pamphlet of documents,"––read the rest for yourself." As they approached the E.R, the sound of the sick and dying became more audible, making Damica feel less at ease as before. She started to see how this could be punishment for anyone. It made her stomach turn just thinking about how much pain these poor people must have been in.

"Ah there he is, over there," Maria chimed, pointing, bringing the clumsy girl back to her attention.

Damica followed the direction of the older she-wolf's finger. In the far back of the room, she saw a white and gray ball of fur lying on one of the hospital beds.

"I don't really see much––oh!" Damica started but was startled as she felt a forceful shove in the boy's direction.

"_Shh,_ he's sleeping!" Maria hushed harshly.

"What do I do when he wakes up?"

"Argh, don't you know anything!" Damica opened her mouth to reply but was stopped by a hand shoved in her face, "No, don't answer that––I already know the answer, "She pinched the bridge of her nose out of frustration, "just give him new bandages and inform him in on where he's going once he's healed."

"Which is…where exactly?"

Maria sighed with such contempt that Damica unconsciously took a step back from her," Everything you need to know is in the file I gave you Damica." She ran her fingers through her hair, which Damica noticed was now messy and tangled unlike before (her mind wondered back to the unsettling silence that she experienced not too long ago; she shuttered at what went on inside the head's office for her hair to look like that) "look, I got to go, deal with this brat on your own, the doctor is still a bit "irritated" by your previous actions, I think I'll go help _"calm him down."_ Was the last thing Maria said before she waltzed off, a slight blush across her face.

Damica had the sudden urged to shut down her brain for her mind began to travel back to the doctor's office––the doctor and Maria doing unspeakable things––before turning her focus back to the young cub that lay on the bed before her.

'_Yeah, this day just got worse.'_

–––

Darkness –pure and utter darkness. The pitch-black pool of nothingness enclosed the boy, blinding him of all his surroundings, limiting him only to the frightening, incoherent sound of ghastly noises in his new location. The tangled webs of ebony shrouding the eight year old sent him in a state of paranoia. His mind started to exasperate the sounds he currently heard, come from little goblins and tiny monsters in his wake to take him back to the horrible nightmare, which he experienced not too long ago.

In the process of ceasing his paranoid mind via breathing exercise, he began to realize the lack of oxygen entering his body. Terrified beyond controlling his own body, he inadvertently put it on autopilot. Acting on instinct, the body shot straight up, allowing its owner to inhale a large quantity of semi-fresh air in the area. In the wake of inhaling the necessary element needed for survival, the boy felt an excruciating pain in his back, causing him to quickly exhale carbon dioxide from his lips and landing his head back on the soft, fluffy fabric.

'_A pillow'_ he noted looking at the feather filled pouch; he made sure only his head was strained while he looked, for the pain he just experienced was still fresh. This must've been the cause of his suffocation, he thought–he must've been lying face first in the pillow, cutting off the access of oxygen. He made a mental note to turn his head on either side from now on to prevent any similar complications in the future. His visual sense fully operating, the boy could now clearly see the location where he currently resided. The sounds he once found demonic were not at all. In realization, they were the moans and groans of the sick–both young and old.

The boy sighed a breath of relief to know he was just in a hospital. Although, the fact that he _was _in a hospital meant he must have been critically injured, thus the bandages nearly wrapped around his entire torso, he found. He tried to get a better look of the room, but his limited mobility ceased him form doing so. Accepting his limited sight of his new location, he laid his head back on the pillow, releasing the weight it carried from the exercise before.

Several minutes past by and the boy's eyes began to grow heavy. The once loud and obnoxious noise of the ill, were now a mere whisper in his ears – a makeshift lullaby one would say. As the sweet bliss of slumber began to consume the young child, the unfortunate event of two new lucid voices added themselves to the mix, breaking the melody of the sick and wounded the boy had grown accustomed to.

Though they had broken him out of his 'trance', the young kit's body was still in its lazy state —it weighed heavy in sleep mode. The boy was unable to move a mere inch, so he stayed quiet as the gibberish of the two feminine voices grew louder and closer—realizing the conversation they were having was about him…

–––

Damica sat in a chair adjacent to the young cub. She could see him clearer now–– a grey raccoon, small, fluffy, and white bandages covering almost his entire torso. Damica cringed; she read the autopsy: trapped under the floor of a closet; entire house collapsed on him––he was no bigger than, at most three feet tall! He was lucky he only got second and a few third degree burns.

'_At least he's alive'_ she kept telling herself, but still the incident disturbed her very much.

She read the rest of the autopsy. Another cold chill ran down her spine as she read: Father, age 44, found dead under rubble. Body barely recognizable. She put her hand over her mouth to stifle a quiet sob.

'_Don't get attached'_ was one of the first lessons she learned when she started working here. It never did sink in, and this little boy wasn't making it any easier to follow that lesson.

A quiet moan caught Damica's attention. Setting the pamphlet on a nearby table, she got a fresh white blanket up and quietly stepped over to the sleeping raccoon. He was still sleeping, she thought, but before she spread the blanket over him, she noticed the dark red stains on the boy's bandages.

'_Right, change his bandages' _but he was sleeping; maybe if she were gentle and quiet enough, maybe he wouldn't wake up, she optimized. With that thought in mind, Damica exchanged the now unfolded blanket for a wrap on bandages and went back over to the sleeping kit. Her palms began to sweat as they hovered over the boys back. She couldn't find where they started or ended, but she had a feeling that the ends of the cloth wouldn't be located on his back. Damica gulped, she didn't want to move the child, but she couldn't find any way around it. So, as gentle as she could, Damica began to push her hand under the boy's stomach, but stop when she heard a quiet sound.

–––

"Ouch," Damica jumped at the sound of the boy's whimper.

The boy turned his head toward the young nurse, "what are you doing?" he asked innocently. He had a strange accent, one she's never heard before.

"Ch-changing your bandages, s-so the wounds wont get in-infected?" Damica stuttered and it came out more of a question than a statement. She cleared her throat and started again, "Sorry I woke you, but d-do you think you can sit up for me so I can change them?"

"I wasn't sleeping, and it hurts when I try to move."

"O-oh…" Damica fiddled with her ankle-length gown.

It was quiet for a moment until the boy spoke again, "Um…nurse?"

Damica looked up, "Yes?"

"How did I get here?"

"Oh! Um…" Damica looked over to the table and grabbed the pamphlet– –she remembered reading about that somewhere, "Um, apparently your neighbors saw the fire coming from your house and called for help. Luckily, a few guards patrolling the area were able to find you and save you before anything worse happened to you. As for your family… I am very sorry." The boy saw real sympathy in the women's green eyes.

"M-my family?" He echoed, "What do mean–" That's when he remembered seeing his father being brutally beaten to death. "Oh…right…" The boy whispered as his eyes became glossy with the liquid it held. He felt a warm hand wipe away a single tear that escaped his eye.

"Don't cry," She tried to calm the boy, "I'm sure your father is in a better place now!" When the boy did not answer she added, "And I'm sure he wouldn't want you to be so sad."

The little raccoon looked up and gave her a little smile. That eased her a little bit.

"Nurse?"

"Hm?"

"How long am I gonna stay here?"

Right, Damica remembered Maria's mentioning of the subject, "Uh…well, lets see," She skimmed the autopsy, "Right, it says here once you are fully healed, you will be registered to an orphanage here in France."

'_An orphanage?'_ he thought, _'I'm going to an orphanage?'_ He always heard rumors of how orphanages where, none were pleasant. The boy shuddered at the thought, which did not go unnoticed.

"I-is there something wrong, little one?" Damica asked.

"Do I have to go?" The boy argued, "I mean, why can't I stay with you?"

The young women's eyebrows made two perfect arches above her eyes. The fact that this child wanted to be with her surprised her; after all they hardly know each other! "I'm sorry, little one, but you can't stay here– someone else might need the vacancy– and I for one am not fit to be your caretaker. Besides, your birth papers apparently burned in the fire, so technically you can't get adopted." She informed him.

"So, does that mean I have to stay in an orphanage forever?"

"No, not forever, just until you are old enough to leave!" Damica saw a change in the little boy once she mentioned an orphanage, he must have heard the awful rumors of children being abused there and never escaping…but she knew better, "Hey," she grabbed the boy's attention, "I grew up in an orphanage you know."

The kit's ears twitched at that, "Really?" Damica nodded, "Weren't you scared, were you almost kidnapped? How did you survive!"

Damica giggled, this boy must have a wild imagination, "Well, I was scared when I first arrived there––I was only five and was all alone, but I soon found friends that eased my loneliness," When she saw the boy open his mouth she quickly answered, "And the only _'kidnapping'_ that occurred would be my lovely parents adopting me."

"So, nothing bad happened to you?"

"Anything can happen, little one, but that's all based on your actions. In fact," she inquired, "Take that as a little life lesson, mon amour." She playfully flicked the little boy's nose, and he giggled childishly. Damica soon followed.

"I guess your back is feeling better?"

That's when the boy noticed he was sitting up right with little to know pain, "I guess your words have a way with healing!" He joked. Damica smiled warmly, she noticed her nerves had relaxed as she started talking to the boy. She might have not followed the 'don't get attached' lesson, but she didn't mind––not with this little boy.

"Um, do you want to change my bandages now, nurse?"

The young child's words brought her back to reality," Oh of course!" She grabbed the bandages from the table and started to unwrap it around her hand.

"Oh, nurse, you never told me your name."

She realized that as well, "Hey, your right, but in all fairness, you didn't tell me yours either," The boy smiled sheepishly, "I'm Damica."

"Sylvester."

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><p><strong>Wow. Honestly, I did not expect this chapter to take so long, but what are you gonna do? Also to be fair, I did say I was going to take my time with the story. Anyway I hope you enjoyed this chapter; it was really frustrating making it sound decent (I had three different files for this one chapter!). I kinda experimented with this chapter, and I kinda like it––not so much to not take critique, but it sounds nice.<strong>

**Yes this is an intro to a new character that will be a big (or at least to me!) part of the story. I also want to add that this, the first chapter, and the next...three maybe? Will be considered the prologue. Yes this story technically has yet to start. the next chapter will probably be split into two chapters.**

**Oh and one more thing! I said before this story is going to take place between the middle age and the renaissance (because absolute monarchs did not or ceased to exist when the renaissance began) but I might incorporate some of the more modern advances in this story. not, i repeat NOT super advanced but enough for this story and other characters (who have yet to appear (but you can see them in my profile)) to be more interesting.**

**Well, thats all I have to say, so without further ado, see you next chapter!**


	3. Prologue 3 of 5

**Sly Cooper and all the characters/themes/ideas associated with its franchise © Sucker punch.**

**All other characters/themes ideas belong to me**

* * *

><p>Secrets in the Shadows<p>

Prologue 3: The Orphanage

Midnight. The hoarse–drawn carriage skittered across the bumpy road; the driver had to take extra caution leading the fumbling horse, and the fact that it was raining did not help much either. Young Sylvester looked outside the carriage window–though the view constantly shook, he could still see well enough. _'What a pretty sight'_, he thought. Yes it was raining and yes the roads were abandoned and muddy, but for a boy who was born and raised in the slums of Paris––the forever filthy, rat infested excuse for a habitat––anything outside that border was a thing of beauty.

Two weeks, less than a month went by and Sylvester's wounds have healed enough for him to become mobile again. God was that good news; staying in that hospital was a living hell! Bound only to that rock-hard bed (he felt guilty complaining about it—before the hospital, the closest thing he ever had to a bed was a bunch of old rags and thinly stuffed pillows) the young eight-year old was forced to hear a mad man releasing his eternal rage on hospital employees in a another form of gibberish he did not recognize (he later found out from Damica that it was the head doctor barking in his native tongue, German), he had to listen to the never ending strings of gossip by the doctors and nurses about other doctors and nurses, but the worst part would have to have been the harsh treatment inflicted on the other patients by the cold hearted employees and seeing the ill die ever so slowly and painfully—the young cub has seen enough deaths to last him, or anyone, a lifetime.

Sylvester sighed and sunk back into his seat, no longer looking out the window. A big bump of the carriage made him jump a good inch in the air. A slight whimper escaped from his mouth—his healing process might have made great progress, but his feeble back was still in dull pain. He heard a muffled _'fâché'_ come from the driver on the outside. Groaning, Sylvester let out a childish whine, "Are we there yet?"

"You asked that ten minutes ago," Damica answered. She laid her hand on Sylvester's head, ruffling his stubby little hair, "and like I said before, we are almost there, _Mon cher_."

Sylvester pouted as he shooed her hand away. Sighing again, he arched over his seat in defeat. Taking this as a great opportunity, Damica shifted her weight toward the boy and began tickling his little ribs.

"Ha…ha, ha, HAHAHAHAHA! Damica Stop! HAHAHAHA!" Sylvester roared.

Damica ignored him at first but eventually she ceased her playful assault, finding herself consumed by her own fit of laughter. The two sat back adjacent from each other trying to suppress their uncontrollable laughter. Sylvester put up his pervious pout, "It's not funny," he tried to stifle his laughs, in vain. He couldn't stay mad at her, and she knew it as well; she was the only one who ever acknowledged him (saved for some of the mentally ill––they made the poor cub very nervous) in the hospital, nursed him back to health––fed him, changed his bandages, and even gave him a sponge bath when he needed it (he could spend days not showering, complements to living in the slums)––and now that his father, his only real lifeline was gone, Damica was his only friend.

They only knew each other for less than a month but they learned so much about one another. Sylvester learned that Damica's father was killed buy a bunch of thugs and her mother died of a heart attack but was soon adopted and raised in a loving home in the middle class––much like himself, save for the middle class part––and that she wants to one day open up a tailor shop, a dream she had since she was a child. And Damica, in return learnt that he respected his father to no end––he never stopped talking about him. He was, apparently a very prestigious man in his neighborhood; he was one of the very few gentlemen in the slums and so was held with the upmost respect, especially by the women. Though, like most _'slum rats'_ he was a petty thief, though he only stole from the higher classes, and stole enough to support the two of them as well as other families in desperate need of help.

Their jovial laughs began to subside when they felt the carriage come to a halt.

"_Nous en sommes arrives"_ came the driver.

Sylvester had a feeling what he said but still looked to Damica for clearance, "We're here," she translated. Another thing she learned about him; he cant speak French––can't understand it at all. He looked out the window to seen an old school like building with a sign, _Happy Camper's._ Sylvester suddenly felt his stomach dropped as he realized this would be his new home. Damica saw the discomfort in his face and placed a tender hand on his head, "Don't worry, you'll be fine. I use to work here, everyone is friendly; you'll make a lot of friends" she cooed.

As she saw the young cub physically begin to relax at her warm words, Damica opened the door but before she stepped out, she turned her attention back to the driver, _"Ne laissez pas, je serai de retour dans un moment."_

"_Que coûtera extra."_

"Fine." Damica huffed and stormed out into the rain. She pulled her light black sweater over her ginger hair to protect it from the rain. Sylvester quietly followed, unprotected; he was quite used to walking in unpleasant weather, and besides that, he liked the rain. The two stepped on the front step of the orphanage. Damica lightly knocked on the door and they patiently waited.

It was quiet for a while, save for the pitter-patter of rain. Occasionally Damica would look back at the carriage to make sure it hasn't left whenever the horses made a noise.

"What did he say?" Damica looked down at Sylvester. She arched one of her perfect brows in confusion, "The man; you said something and he said something back that made you angry"

Damica smiled sheepishly, "Oh, that. I just told him to stay until I come back, but he said I'd have to pay extra."

"Oh," he said, then added, "That wasn't very nice."

"No, no it wasn't, _cher_"

Another pause, then Sylvester chimed "He should've helped you out" he said, "he should have held out the door for you and walk to the door like a gentleman, like my dad."

Damica sighed in amusement, "You're right, _cher_, but unfortunately you wont find many _'gentlemen'_ around here."

Sylvester looked away, then muttered, "Well he still should have."

Before Damica could respond, the door swung open and revealed a busty old pigeon with her grey hair in a messy bun. Her countenance changed instantly from grumpy and bitter to shock and delight, "Damica! Come in, _venir_!"

"_Madame Puffin, Il a été si longtemps!"_ Damica excitingly exclaimed as the older women, Ms. Puffin, caressed her hands.

"_Oui, il a été,"_ Ms. Puffin looked down at young Sylvester, whom flushed and looked down at his raggedy shoes, _"Est ce que le petit garçon de l'incendie?"_

Damica nodded, _"Oui."_

The old pigeon squatted down to meet the cub's eye level, _"Bonjour, mon nom est Madame Puffin, quelle est la vôtre?"_

Silence. Sylvester could only look at the women–he said nothing. A pause, then the pigeon spoke again, _"Excusez-moi, J'ai dit quel est votre nom?"_ Still the boy remained silent, _"Ce qui, ne pouvez-vous pas parler français!"_ Sylvester reluctantly shook his head (it was a phrase he'd come to recognize whenever someone asked if he spoke French). Finally a response, but not one the old bird was looking for. She looked irritably at Damica, her eyes demanding answers.

"_Non, il ne parle pas français"_ She offered her hand to the old bird, but she stubbornly refused, _"Je voulais vous dire avant"_

"_Vous avez dit qu'il l'avait soulevée en France"_

"_Il ne" _Damica corrected_ "Mais il ne parle pas la langue"_

"_Cela n'a aucun sens!"_

Sylvester watched as the two women argued in their native tongue. The extravagant language rolled off their tongues like a ball rolling down hill. He had a feeling what they were arguing about, but decided not to dwell on it. He instead assessed his current situation; this is where he would live until he was legally allowed to leave. The idea both excited him and frightened him at once––for one, he would be in a new, hopefully friendly neighborhood, no longer had he have to peer over his shoulder every second of everyday. But this would also be his jail cell; forever bounded to this building and all of its land (which wasn't much from what Sylvester saw while outside) watching friends come and go as he spends the next ten years of his young life here.

Sylvester sighed, now gloomy and depressed. The annoying tapping of rain didn't help relieve his stress either. He peered around the room, the dull and cheerless colored span of inventory; his old home had a much more content environment than this.

As he was about turn his attentiveness back towards the still arguing women, his sensitive ears twitched at a small feeble sound. Turning to where the sound emitted, he froze. It was short––only a split second––but he saw it. His big innocent chocolate eyes met that of another––another that was not of this world. Down a hall in the far left of the room a pair of unnaturally, brightly colored eyes emerged around the darkness of a corner, glowing in utter nothingness. One second of contact, and then in flash the eyes disappeared. Sylvester hastily exhaled a breath of carbon dioxide that he subconsciously withheld. Those eyes were nothing he had ever seen before. He was captivated and frightened by an unwavering trance of the unknown.

/

Mrs. Puffin huffed, irritated by the present predicament. It was bad enough she had to teach these orphans about literary terms and devices in French, now she would have to teach this young boy how to _speak_ French. She didn't sign up for this burden and she would've just declined the boy entrance to her orphanage. However, this was Damica, the longest lasting volunteer she'd ever had who would always help someone in need and never asked for anything in return. She couldn't very well just decline possibly the one thing she ever asked of her.

With another huff from her yellow beak, she halfheartedly accepted, "Fine. But you better see to it that he is properly fluent in this country's language, because you know very well I don't have time nor the patience to do so myself."

Damica's face lit up, _"Merci, mon ami! Merci!"_ She grasped the elder woman's hands with fierce gratitude, "You don't know how much this means to me!" She looked down at her little kit companion, "Did you hear, Sylvester, you can stay!"

No answer. His mind was focused on something else in a different direction. Damica turned her gaze in the same direction––she saw nothing.

"Sylvester?" She tapped his little shoulder, startling him. He looked up at her with his big chocolate orbs of innocence. Damica smiled sheepishly, "Um, it's time for me to go now, I already cleared everything up with Mrs. Puffin and––"

"No!" Sylvester grabbed her arm, "You can't leave yet!"

"Sylvester, what's––"

"There's a monster living here!"

"_Quoi?"_ Perplexed, Damica looked towards Puffin for answers, in vain––she was just as confused as she was.

"I'm scared Damica, don't leave me!" The little boy begged.

Damica felt a tug at her heart. She swallowed down a lump in her throat and bend down to meet Sylvester's eye level, "_mon cher_, I will always come and see you."

"When will that be, you're always busy?"

Damica paused and thought, "Let's make a deal: I'll come and see you everyday after work, and if you're a good boy––which you are––I'll bring you a present, is that fair?"

Sylvester thought too. Finally, he showed a small smile and quietly answered, "Okay."

Damica smiled back, _"Bien,"_ She pulled his little body into an affectionate hug, "I miss you already."

The whinnying and galloping of horses quickly caught Damica's attention, "It's for me to go; you are going to be just fine, Sylvester, I promise."

The kit nodded.

Adjusting her dress, she turned on her heel to take her leave, _"au revoir!"_

Sylvester ran to the front window. He watched as Damica dashed for the carriage, cursing in her native tongue as she called out for the driver to halt.

"Bye" Sylvester whispered.

"_Ahem!"_

Sylvester whirled around to see Mrs. Puffin towering over him. He gulped as she casted a shadow over him. "H-hello" he stuttered.

Unfortunately, the woman no longer had interest in formalities, "It's late––children your age should have been in bed hours ago."

"My dad use to let me stay up until I'm tired cause––"

"New home, new rules, _garçon_." She stated

"But I'm a raccoon."

"So?"

"So I'm eternal!"

"_Vous ne faites pas de––!"_ She stopped mid sentence, remembering this _native_ does not speak his own language.

"It's time to go to bed." She echoed.

"But––"

"No buts, _Jacques!_" Without hesitation, a young male French poodle appeared from around the corner.

"_Oui, Madame Puffin, comment puis-je vous aider,"_ He asked politely

"This is Sylvester, our newest orphan. Help him get settled in and make sure he goes to bed immediately." She took another look at the young damp kit then ushered Jacques to come closer, _"Et il ne peut pas parler français, assurez-vous qu'il apprend, rapide." _She then turned to leave, "I will be in my office if you need me." With that, she disappeared behind a nearby door.

An awkward silence; the young poodle looked down at the even younger raccoon. He must have got caught in the rain, he thought, for the little cub was rather wet; a small puddle began to form where he stood. He was surprised to see how unaffected he was to it––his little blue shirt was full of holes and we wore nothing underneath. His shoes matched the same as his shirt, and his pants…wait, was he _wearing_ pants?

"Um…" the small noise brought Jacques back to the boy himself and the situation at hand. He bared his sharp, pearly white teeth at the kit, "Let us get you a room, little one." He extended his hands to grab whatever belongings the boy had carried but the only thing he had were the clothes on his back. Surprised and a bit embarrassed, the poodle ushered the boy to his room.

Sylvester quietly followed the rather tall canine as he walked him to his room. He had one of the thickest accents he's heard so far, it was quite amusing to him. Jacques stopped in the front of a hallway. He laid a hand on his chin and stroked it with one of his fingers.

"Hmm let us see, _quelle chambre est vacant?_"

Sylvester stood silent besides Jacques looking at the different doors he might enter. His little yet sensitive ears picked up the muffled laughter of children. His gazed focused on the door in the far back of the hallway. Then he saw it again; for another split second, he made contact with the same unruly, brilliantly colored eyes he saw before––the same intense stare filled with an indigenous atmosphere––and in an instant, it was gone.

Jacques's own sensitive ears picked up on the muttering of childish voices from behind the back door. He smiled, "Come little one, I know a good room for you," He looked down at him, but he noticed that the little raccoon boy stayed perfectly still, as if he were in some sort of a trance, "Do not worry," he reassured him, "The little ones do this all the time, stay up late and pretend to sleep when you check on them," He moved forward to the back, and finally Sylvester was able to regain feeling in his legs.

As they got closer, the sounds of chatter and laughter became more audible, "Watch," Jacques said obtaining his attention. As soon as he turned the knob on the door, the noise began to be replaced with a hushed frenzy of little feet tapping on the floor. The door opened to reveal a long room filled with apparently sleeping children in the mass of bunk beds that filled the room. Jacques chuckled at the typical sight whenever he walked in late. "Follow me," he said as Sylvester, as usual, quietly followed.

As they walked to the end of the seemingly endless room (at least to Sylvester) Sylvester could hear the murmurs and whispers of high-pitched voices coming under the bed sheets of _'sleeping'_ children. Jacques let out a harsh _shush_ and the quiet screams began to subside.

"Ah here we are," Jacques quietly announced. Sylvester stood in front of one of the many bunk beds in the room. However the bottom bed was vacant. "The child who slept here was adopted a few days ago. Its yours now." Sylvester gingerly sat on the bed; it was a lot like the bed at the hospital, granted a bit softer, something Sylvester was very grateful for. He saw Jacques fold up the blanket next to him. He gave him a puzzled look, "I'll get you a clean blanket to sleep with tonight. Oh and don't worry about the little one sleeping on top, He doesn't bother anybody. He's new as well, actually; maybe you should get acquainted with him ––become friends even." Sylvester climbed into his new bed, "I'll be right back," Jacques whispered softly, "_Bonne nuit_, _Sylvester,_" He then stood up and took his leave, _"Bonne nuit à vous aussi, les enfants."_ The rustling of other bed sheets were heard before Jacques closed the door.

/

Sylvester lay still on his small bed, looking up at the bottom of the top bunk. It was midnight, he could tell because this was the time when he was most awake. His nocturnal eyes looked over at the other beds he could see; the young orphans lay quiet in their own beds in blissful slumber. The little eight-year-old was a bit envious of them. He struggled with his new pillow trying to adapt to it, but it was very uncomfortable; he'd much prefer the one at the hospital.

'_I'll ask Damica for one.' _Sighing, he shut his eyes trying to fall asleep, in vain. Nocturnal animals should not have to be forced to sleep at night. About an hour went by and Sylvester still could not fall asleep. Staying in his little head, he began rewind the events that happened, from bouncing on his fathers lap to now. Sylvester wiped a tear away from his cheek now sadden by how fast his life has changed in such a short period of time. _'Think of something else.'_ He told himself. His mind wondered back to that _thing_ he saw earlier.

"A monster." He murmured. He looked around to see if anyone heard him then laid back down when he concluded he didn't. No, it wasn't a monster; the atmosphere surround those piercing eyes told him other wise. He'd seen it twice now: once when Damica and Mrs. Puffin were arguing and the second time…was in here.

Sylvester's body began to shake. He remembered seeing the _thing_ open the door and closing it when he saw him. What was it? Where was it? A shuffling came from the top bed bunk. Sylvester shifted his body and peered over his bed to look at top bunk. He body was paralyzed.

Those eyes, the same ones from before stared back at him, that unwavering indigenous atmosphere still surrounding it. Sylvester's own chocolate eyes stared back at them, mystified. A faint glow came from them and he could see the color of them now, violet. The head that belonged them shifted, and startled the poor raccoon. The darkness covered the rest of its features, but he could point out a small smile forming. "Good night." It said and it casually laid back on its own bed, returning to its blissful slumber.

Sylvester plopped down on his own bed, wide eyed. That was the longest contact he had between it, the thing, the _person._ What was it? It was a person, a child. _'An orphan'_ he thought. An orphan with an unearthly aura that frightened him, yet interested him as well. He turned on his side, facing the wall. His eyes began to grow heavy. A question began to form in his head, who was this orphan with violet eyes? He wanted to know so badly as curiosity began to form. _'Tomorrow,' _he told himself, _'wait till tomorrow,'_ he pulled his sheets closer to him, _'now sleep.' _ He closed his eyes and drifted into unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><strong>Woop woop! TWO MONTHS BABY! I knew it wouldn't take as long as the last chapter :D Anyway, I must say that this chapter isnt my favorite so far. I mean, it wasnt suppose to come out like this–– this was suppose to be the introduction to the third chapter, a couple pages but its soo long! It came up to be eight in total T_T. Ah well, at least it works (hopefully). Unfortunately I didnt really introduce the next two main characters of the story (and Jacques is NOT a main character). However I <em>did<em> kinda give you a taste of one of them; the orphan with violet eyes? Yeah.**

**Well, on a side note, I updated my avatar; its a picture of the three main characters I drew actually ^^ Ok the next chapter I promise will introduce the next two, and its gonna be so much fun finally including them in one of my fanfictions (they have stories of their own that have noting to do with Sly Cooper and the likes) and I cant wait to know if you guys like them or not, but you can still get some sort of who they are on my page (yes all that are on my page will be in this story––some more important than others). The prologue is almost over, theres about two more chapters before the actual story begins so until next time, see ya!**


	4. Prologue 4 of 5

**Please forgive any mistakes and such. I wrote most of this with a migraine, so the writing may or may not be as good. And sorry if it starts to feel rushed.**

**Sly Cooper and all the characters/themes/ideas associated with its franchise © Sucker punch.**

**All other characters/themes ideas © to me**

* * *

><p>Secrets in the Shadows<p>

Prologue 4: The Orphans

'_Am I going to die?'_

_His heart was beating out of his chest. Bullets of sweat dripped from his mask-covered face. He crouched in the corner of the closet; silent, scared, petrified. The sounds from behind the closet door were loud—he could hear the ransacking of furniture and the barking of orders. They were looking for him._

_It all happened so fast; from bouncing on his father's leg to seeing him brutally murdered behind the cracked closet door. He mentally kicked himself for allowing curiosity to take over, then even harder when he left the door cracked. He could still hear his Father's trembled words, the last he would ever hear enter his ears. Silent tears began to form in his big innocent eyes but he wiped them away hastily in fear of even the drop of one would alert the invaders. Booming voices began to echo throughout the small cottage _

"_Where is he!? Find the little Brat!"_

"_He's not here!"_

"_He's not in here either, sir!"_

_The boy gulped at he sound of the invaders frantically searching for him. Sooner of later they were going to find him. He crawled over to the closet door. He peaked outside and saw the house ransacked and giants running around…passing his father's disfigured body. Tears began to form again, this time he didn't wipe them away. It was hard to control himself from seeing his father's dead carcass._

"_Daddy?" He whimpered, but a moment later he realized what he'd done. He clasped his hand over his mouth, breaking away from his own sorrow. Silence was heard—The giants that were running around now stopped and looked in the direction of the closet._

"_There's our little ring-tailed rat!" _

_The boy's eyes went wide, his body paralyzed with fear as he realized just how they found him. They know where he is now and there was only one thing that ran through his mind:_

'_I'm going to die!'_

_The thumping in the boy's chest began to grow even louder, threatening to escape his ribcage. He shut the door with such force then locked it in mass hysteria. He pushed his weight on the door, praying that it would hold off the big scary invaders, in vain. The door was kicked open so hard that it sent the boy straight through the floor. Dust and cobwebs floated everywhere._

"_Where are you rat?!"_

_The little cub looked up to see the door covering his entrance, something he was grateful for. Silence was all to be heard safe for the crackling of fire from the chimney and candles. Metal pierced through the wooden door right in front of him–reflecting his image. He saw his wide, dilated eyes in the steel sword and the salty tears escaping them. The sword was pulled out and silence was heard again, but before the poor boy could relax, the door was thrown aside, revealing him to the mass of giant men, and a small, stubby one with a sword._

"_There you are." The short man said as he kicked him in the gut. The boy toppled over, saliva forced its way out of his mouth. The boy looked up at the man with the sword, the terrifying gleam of iron in his eyes, god those eyes!_

'_I'm going to die…'_

_The man raised his sword high above his head._

'…_no…'_

"_And now you die" With all his might, the short man brought his sword down._

"_NOOOOO!"_

* * *

><p>"NOOOOO!"<p>

Sylvester shot up from his bed, shaking uncontrollably. He looked frantically around the dark unfamiliar room, unbeknownst to where he was.

"Where…Daddy?" He called out, but there was no answer. That it all started to come back to him, the last two weeks hit him like a ton of bricks; the murder, the hospital, and the orphanage, "Oh, right…" He sighed. He could feel a lump forming in his throat, but quickly composed him––he promised himself he wouldn't cry like a baby; there are other kids who had it worse than him. He ran his hand across his face; tears and sweat dampened his fur. He looked around the room to see if he woke any of the other orphans but he found that he was the only one. _'Must be outside'_ He was about to get up when he noticed how wet the bottom half of his body was. Sylvester looked down in confusion then moaned in embarrassment; his once clean white blanket cover now had a big, slightly yellow stain in the middle.

"Not again." He moaned. The last time he wet the bed was ages ago; the sudden change of lifestyle must have gotten to him—That, and the frightful night terror. How grateful he was to be the only one in the room. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his, still trembling self down. Unfortunately the air smelt of his urine, which only made him feel worse about the situation. He stepped off his bed and rolled the dirty blanket into a ball and carried it outside with him––he remembered seeing a clothes hamper somewhere last night.

Sylvester looked down the hallway. It wasn't as long and eerie as it was last night. _'My imagination,'_ he thought. He walked passed other doors probably leading to other bedrooms. Sylvester stopped at the end of the hall, scanning the room for any sign of the hamper he saw last night. Luckily he found one in front of a fancy looking door. He was grateful—the ball of soiled cloth was starting to weigh heavily in his short little arms. He scurried over to the hamper, but frowned. From a far the basket looked tiny, but now that he was close to it, he found it to be a rather large one—it was too tall for him to reach. Sylvester cursed himself for being so short, if only he were an inch or two taller. No matter, he thought, there was always more than one way to do things. With that thought in mind, Sylvester took a step back holding the cloth ball high over his head. With determination clearly showing on his face, he threw the ball as far as he can, trying to throw it in the basket. He failed, miserably. The sheet _did_ land on the basket, but unbeknownst to him, the hamper's opening—the _slanted_ hamper's opening, was closed and it quickly slid off it and landing on top of Sylvester unfolded.

Mrs. Puffin sat in front of her desk in her office shuffling through unfinished paperwork when she heard yelling right in front of her door.

"Ew, eww, EWWW!"

"What in the world…?" She mumbled before getting up and opening her door. She gasped, _"Mon dieu!"_ A white and yellow blob was dancing around in front of her office, arms swinging about crazily.

"EWWW! Get it off! GET IT OFF!" the blob yelped

In confusion and slight fear, Mrs. Puffin grabbed the top of the blob's head—the yellow part—and yanked it upwards. Fear turned into fury as she stared down at the _'blob'._ His countenance showed that of embarrassment. He hasn't been here for a week and he's already causing havoc.

"_Sylvester!?"_ She began, _"Ce qui dans le monde—_I mean, what on earth are you doing!?"

Sylvester looked up at her, bashful and silent.

"You should be in class, young man." She stated.

"Class?"

"Yes, class. Children your age go to school, do they not?"

Sylvester stammered, "Um, y-yes, but—"

"And why are you playing around with this sheet?" She held it in front of him

"I wasn't playing with it," He protested, "I was trying to put it in the hamper!"

"And why is that?" Mrs. Puffin asked condescendingly.

"B-because its…_dirty_" Sylvester blushed.

"Dirty?" The boy nodded. She examined the sheet, "Dirty where?"

No response, again. It was clearly starting to annoy her. She was about to ask again when she noticed the big wet splotch on his pants. "What…?" She looked at him in confusion. She looked at the sheet, then back at Sylvester. Then back at the sheet, then back at Sylvester. Finally, she put two and two together and her expression turned from confusion to shock and utter disgust. _"Mon dieu!"_ Mrs. Puffin yelled as she hurriedly stuffed the urine-covered sheet in the hamper.

"_Yuk! Filthy, dégoûtant!"_ She exclaimed. Sylvester looked up at the poor old woman; how thankful he was to have dark colored fur, or else he would have been visibly red at that moment.

"Aren't you too young to be peeing the bed!?" Puffin roared.

"Sorry!" Sylvester cried, "I didn't mean to!"

"They never do," she mumbled. Regaining her composer, she looked back down at the little embarrassed cub. Clearing her throat she began, "Well you can't very well go to class smelling of your own waste now can you?" She gave him no time to reply before she bellowed for Jacques, _"Jacques! Un moment, s'il vous plait!"_ and just like last night, he came in no time flat.

"_Oui, madam?" _Jacques asked.

"_Sylvester a mouillé son lit. Lui nettoyé et à lui dans la classe immédiatement."_

"_Oui, Madam, comme vous le voulez."_ He looked over at Sylvester, "Come, little one, let us get you cleaned up."

The little cub, still embarrassed and ashamed, reluctantly followed.

* * *

><p>Jacques and Sylvester—dripping wet and wrapped in a towel—walked down a hallway after his bath. It wasn't the best of baths, but then again, he never really had a <em>good<em> bath.

"My apologies for the cold shower; hot water comes and goes these days." Jacques apologized.

"S'okay." Sylvester answered.

"We have been trying to get it fixed now for weeks, but alas, you pour little ones have to bare your teeth at the cold winter of a bath" Jacques exasperated, but then calmed down and smiled down at the little wet ball of fur "Well, at least you are feeling better; squeaky clean and ready to start the day!" He playfully tickled Sylvester's sides, causing him to giggle. They stopped in front of a closet door. Opening it, Jacques crouched down and looked at the bottom "Here we are. Now, let's see here…" He mumbled.

Sylvester smiled back after his laugher ceased —he liked Jacques, he was nice. He peeked over his crouching figure, "What are you looking for?" he asked

"The clothes Damica brought." Jacques answered without looking back.

"Clothes?" Sylvester repeated, "What clothes?"

"The clothes she brought for you yesterday while you were asleep of course," He informed the little kit, "Were you not told?"

Sylvester dumbly shook his head, "No one told me anything." He told truthfully.

"Oh…" Jacques whispered slightly surprised, "Sylvester…you have been asleep for the past two days now."

"W…What!?" Sylvester gasped, "Two days!? Why didn't anyone wake me!? What did I miss!? Wha—!?"

"Calm down, _se calmer,_" Jacques insisted, resting one hand on his little shoulder, "There is nothing you have missed out on, and I'm sure _Madame Puffin_ has her reasons as to why she has not told you of this; maybe she didn't want you to worry as you are doing so right now?" Jacques smiled as he saw the little kit blush in embarrassment. Chuckling, the young poodle went back to searching the closet.

A minute passed before Jacques spoke again, "_Ah, Il y a nous allez!"_ he exclaimed. Before Sylvester could ask, Jacques turned around sporting two articles of clothing hanging on his arm, "Found them!" He cheered before giving them to the now only partially wet kit, "Now hurry and change, little one, you are already late to class as is!"

* * *

><p>Butterflies danced in Sylvester's stomach as he stood in front of a freshly polish oak door, and his new hole-less red shirt was starting to chafe. Pressing his little ear to the door, he could hear the voice of probably the teacher lecturing their students.<p>

'_More like yelling'_ he thought.

He looked over at Jacques, whom was leaning against the wall waiting patiently.

"Ready?" The poodle asked simply.

"Um…" Sylvester hesitated, switching his gaze from Jacques to the door as he pressed his little ear against it again. He hoped to hear at least one other voice, to make the introduction less awkward. Unfortunately, the only voice he could hear was the teacher's.

Nervously, he looked back at his escort, "Um…they're in the middle of a lesson and, well, I don't want to be rude…" He gave a hopeful, yet apprehensive grin.

Jacques looked at him for a moment, smiling. Pushing off the wall with is foot, he stepped in front the little nervous raccoon, positioning himself between him and the door. He raised his left hand, shaped in a firm ball. He looked back down at Sylvester, a mischievous grin plastered on his face, then his fist connected with the door in a joyful rhythm: *_knock, knockknock, knock, knock. Knock, knock*_

Silence. Sylvester couldn't hear the teacher's, or anyone else's voice. A minute passed. Then two. Then three. Then the teacher's voice was heard once again. Sylvester stood there in confusion, wondering why they were being ignored. Sylvester looked at Jacques, whom to his surprise, looked highly amused, as if trying to hold in a snigger. Regaining his composure, his fist connected to the door again in the same rhythm: *_knock, knockknock, knock, knock. Knock–_

"_Je me permets de vous rappeler, __**Jacques**__, que c'est l'histoire et non la musique classe!?"_

**-00110-**

"May I remind you, _**Jacques**_, that this is history and not music class!?"

The door swung open before Jacques could finish his knock and revealed a tall, elderly Billy goat looking quite agitated.

Jacques smiled, trying his best to suppress a roar of laughter threatening to escape his lungs, "_Bonjour _to you too, Aleixandre."

"That's _Monsieur Rousseau_ to you, young man." Aleixandre huffed.

"Aww," Jacques whined, "But I thought we were past formalities, _Alex_." Jacques pouted playfully. Again he had to hold in his laughter as he saw the goat's face scrunch up in disgust.

Aleixandre huffed once more, than regained his composure, "What do you want?" he asked hastily. Soon after he noticed a little ball of fur behind the young poodle's leg, "And who, or _what_ is that?"

Jacques looked down at his leg and smiled, "This–" he pushed the nervous little raccoon in front of him, allowing Aleixandre to fully see him, "–is Sylvester. He's new here–just arrived two days ago, in fact."

Aleixandre looked down at the boy with little interest, then back at Jacques, "And why is he _here_, exactly?" He questioned.

As expected, the pallid poodle laughed, "Why, to attend class, obviously!" Jacques pronounced, "He is, after all, a child; he needs an education."

Aleixandre grumbled, "Yes, of course," He said hesitantly, "I'll let him in my class. Is there anything else I need to know–anything _important_?"

Jacques paused, now his turn to be hesitant, "Yes, well…" The elder Billy goat arched one grey eyebrow at the, usually confident canine's, reluctance. Finally Jacques found his voice once again, a mischievous glint in his eyes, "I'll let you figure that one out, _old_ friend." with a wink–and before the old goat could process what he heard–Jacques bent down at eye level with the little raccoon kit, said good bye and walked down the hall, leaving him and the boy alone in the hallway.

**-00110-**

Sylvester kept quiet as Jacques and the goat spoke in their fluent French. He barely made any eye contact with them, especially the goat–he was a bit intimidating, as all elder adults were to him–who looked at him with little to know interest from time to time. They spoke fast and hurriedly, well the goat did; Jacques seemed highly amused at it as he took his time, pronouncing every syllable fluently. He didn't really know exactly what they were talking about, but he new the main topic was connected him. Soon though, the conversation stopped, and before Sylvester knew it, he was alone in the hallway with the old Billy goat as Jacques walked down the end of the hall.

Sylvester swallowed the spat of saliva in his throat, and then turned his attention to the old man standing in front of the door. He smiled shyly, but the goat showed no jovial reaction in return. "Um…" he started, trying to dissipate the awkward silence, "Hello?" It came out as more of a question than a statement, but the goat didn't seem to mind…or care. Few more seconds of silence then finally, the goat opened the door, motioning for him the raccoon to come in.

Sylvester did as gestured and stepped in the classroom where he was greeted with silence. The murmuring and gossip from little voices that were heard all around the classroom before had stopped as all the children gaped at the new arrival. All eyes were on him, as if they've never seen a raccoon before.

"_C'est Sylvester,_ _votre nouvelle camarade"_ Announced the teacher, but Sylvester had a feeling they paid no attention to the goat; they were too fixated on him. The very thought made Sylvester anxious. He can feel his shirt chafing again–all the attention was making him sweat underneath. Some kids started to murmur amongst each other, though never taking their eyes off him. Sylvester's eyes darted over to the goat, but he took no notice––he was too preoccupied writing on the wall. The young kit scanned the room aimlessly. He noticed though, the lack of boys in the room; he could count the amount on his fingers. He spotted an almost vacant seat in the far back of the classroom, where his eyes focused on the only person not acknowledging him. With a near audible gulp Sylvester began to walk up the steps to his new seat—and possibly new friend; he could feel every piercing eye that fell on him and hear their voices getting louder. Sylvester found himself wanting to use the bathroom again.

The quiet screams and eyeballing, however, were put to rest as the sound of hard wood connecting to bigger, even _harder_ wood.

"_Silence!" _yelled the teacher, _"Classe a commence."_

Sylvester let out a sigh of relief as he took his seat, no eyes or voices focusing on him. He usually liked being the center of attention, depending on the circumstances of course, and the vibe he got from the rest of the kids was very unsettling. Relaxing in his seat, he turned his attention to the boy sitting next to him, whom currently was scribbling something on parchment with his quill. "Uh, hi, what's your name?" no answer. The mysterious boy's face was covered by the dark green hoodie over his head with golden yellow bangs covering the rest of his face. He wanted to ask again lest the hooded boy didn't hear, but the strange, intimidating aura surrounding the boy told Sylvester to leave him be. Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the Billy goat giving his lecture. That's when his anxiety hit again; fast, fluent French, the old man spoke. The kit had a hard time wrapping his head around a single syllable let alone a word or whole sentence. He looked around the room; everyone was taking notes on whatever the teacher was saying—even the mystery boy beside him seemed to be heavily focused on jotting down notes.

'_Why!?'_ Sylvester groaned, _'Why is that I have to be the only boy in France who doesn't speak French!?' _He looked down at his own paper—it was blank. Sylvester turned towards the boy again, "Do you know what he's talking about?" he whispered. No reply. He groaned again, _'Maybe if I pretend to take notes, the teacher won't notice me'_ with that thought in mind, he picked up his quill, dipped it in ink and started scribbling on his paper. _'If you can't make it out, fake it out'_ that's what his father always used to say. He wrote everywhere on the sheet—every nook and cranny he could find—trying to look as devoted and involved in the class as possible, occasionally looking up to see if everyone was still writing.

'_I can't believe this,'_ he thought, _'It's actually working, the teacher doesn't even notice me! Just a few more minutes and class is—'_

"_Sylvester!"_

'_Crap.'_

Sylvester looked up, "uh, oui?" That meant yes, right?

"_Qui mènent les troupes françaises contre l'anglais chez Orléans?"_

Everyone's eyes were on him (except for the boy next to him whom, surprisingly was still writing) and Sylvester swore he heard the splash of his sweat hitting the desk.

"Uh…um…_oui_?" Was that the right answer? Please say that was the right answer!

The class erupted with laughter.

_That wasn't the right answer._

Apart from the laughing faces, he saw the Teacher's wide-eyed, disgruntled expression and somehow managed to hear words _Jacques _and _kill_ in the same sentence.

"_Quelqu'un traduisent pour le garçon d'iliterate?!"_ The goat growled in frustration

Before Sylvester could ask what he said, a little girl—maybe a year or so younger—turned to him and said in a snooty thick accented voice, "He asked, who carried out the French troops against English at Orleans?"

"O-oh!" He felt the tension escaping his chest, "Well that's easy! That was…!" he paused.

"Ha ha! He doesn't know the answer!" The class erupted in a new found laughter.

Mr. Rousseau felt a new vain form on his forehead.

Sylvester just wanted to curl up in a ball.

"I do _**so**_ know the answer!" His cry fell on deaf ears. _Did_ he know the answer? He'd been home schooled most of his life, and the only thing that came close to a real school were those hour get together with the neighbor kids when a parent volunteered to share their wisdom with the youths…which he never really paid attention to.

He was just about to give up when he felt poke at his side. He looked next to him to catch the cloaked boy passing his paper to him. His previous assumption was wrong; there were no notes, just random doodles! Though, upon further inspection, he saw a few words written sloppily on the page.

"Jo…an of Arc?" He asked out loud to the boy, but the room turned quiet. He turned his attention back to the class, "Um…?"

"Correct" The teacher announced. Sylvester sighed in relief

"Oui, but class was over two minutes ago!" One child said

"Ha, ha, it doesn't count!" yelled another, and the kids began to laugh again.

"Wh…WHAT!?" Sylvester barked, "Whaddya mean 'doesn't count!? I got it right!"

"Two mintues too late" A boy snorted

"That's a load a' bull—"

"_Assez!"_ The teacher barked, _"Assez de ces bêtises! Classe congédier"_ He opened the door, urging everyone out.

"Grrrr…" Sylvester growled as everyone was ushered out. "Can you believe—huh?" He turned his attention back to the cloak boy, but to his surprise he wasn't there, "Where did…" The cub started to ask, but was interrupted by a clearing of the throat. He looked at the elder goat, a stern look on his face, foot tapping.

_Oh right, get out._ He was the only one left, save for a few just setting foot outside. Climbing down the steps, the slightly embarrassed cub walk out the door and into the hallway, but not before the old goat shoved a folded paper into his hand and slammed the door behind him.

"O…kay?" Sylvester looked at the little slip in his hand, and unfolded it gently. In big bold letters it said:

"ILITERATE NOT ALLOWED IN MY CLASSROOM."

The little raccoon stared at the message for a second. Then two. Then three. Then finally a question formed in his mind:

"WHAT!?"

* * *

><p>"I should ask Damica to teach me French" Sylvester spoke aloud to no one in particular, "Or at least a little to get me through the day," He took another bite out of his freshly made chicken cutlet—a little salty, but nothing a carton of milk couldn't cure. It was lunchtime and Sylvester sat alone at a nearby bench. The lunch staff are good cooks; it was one of the best meals he had in his short life, not that he had any spectacular meal to compare it to.<p>

There were a couple more classes before lunch, and they were more or less same as the first, save for a couple of kids not laughing at him.

"Maybe I can ask for a book on French, so I can just look up the words?" He conjured, but shook his head, "No, that'll take too long." He took a sip of his milk, trying to concentrate over all the noise of the screaming children laughing and playing.

"Hmm, let's see; maybe I can—oof!" His concentration was interrupted when something _thonked_ him in the back of his head. "What the…" hold where he got hit with one hand, he looked down behind him to see the culprit. On the ground was dirty, off white ball. Picking it up, he looked around to see who threw it.

"Hey over here!" Someone shouted. He followed the voice to see a group of kids—a duck, a badger, and a squirrel—jogging up to him.

"Heh, sorry about that," The duck said, scratching the back of his head, "Guess we kinda got carried away." He held out his hand.

"Oh," Sylvester responded, "S'okay, it was just an accident, right?" He gave him back the ball.

"Er, right" The duck laughed again, "Hey, you're new; you were in our history class, right?" the raccoon nodded, though reluctantly, "Why don't you play with us?

"Oh, uh, I dunno. I don't wanna get in the way, and plus I'm still kinda hungry…"

"Aw come on, just one game! We can use an extra player, right boys?" the duck looked at his friends.

"Right!" They said in unison.

Sylvester gave in, "Well, if you insist."

The four boys walked out further into the yard and started throwing the ball at each other. They formed a little box and passed it to one another, but every now and then someone would have to run outside the box to catch the ball. Sylvester was having fun to say the least; maybe this'll be the start of a new friendship. As the four started to get a little more hyperactive, Sylvester noticed the looks the other kids were giving him while playing, some sniggering, others worried—some even stopped playing altogether and stared.

'_What's wrong with everyone?'_ he mused_ 'They act like they never saw four guys playing before.'_ He stopped running; the looks and stares were making him uneasy. He missed, though, the mischievous grins the three other boys exchanged. The squirrel, current wielder of the ball, passed it over to his badger friend. He focused his aim at the distracted raccoon boy. With a sinister look of glee, he outstretched his meaty arm, and, with as much force as he could muster, threw it with all his might directly at the eight-year-old's head.

Sylvester was just about to ask why everyone was so fixated on their little game when someone shouted, "Look out!"

The kit snapped his back in front of him. Time seemed to slow down as he saw the speeding ball heading towards his head. Acting on instinct, he ducked just in the nick of time; the ball slightly grazed the top of his head. He looked behind him to see where the ball landing, but was shocked to see it about to hit the head of another.

"Look out!" He shouted and, to his surprise, the three other boys as well. It was too late. The ball made contact in the back of another child's head.

An "Oops," escaped the eight year olds mouth.

Almost everyone in the yard gasped in horror as if the amount of oxygen in the air suddenly decreased. From behind, he could hear an "Uh-oh" from one of the boys.

Sylvester, still crouching, was about to ask if the ball victim was all right, "Hey are…you…" He stopped midsentence. His eyes widened as he saw whom the ball hit; it was that cloaked boy; the same one who helped him with that _Joan of Arc_ question! He felt that intimidating aura surrounding him. No one made a sound as the boy slowly stood up, and turned around. Sylvester could almost see the beeds of sweat coming down everyone's faces, even the boys behind him. The boy was a lot bigger than most of the kids in the yard. Even though he wasn't at full height, the boy easily dominated over him—he was at least a foot taller than the eight year old. Though it was covered by that hoodie, Sylvester was able to make out the boy's face; he was a cat, his face made up of white and grey, the sides of his face covered with the same strikingly dirty golden yellow.

"Hair," Sylvester muttered aloud, inadvertently catching the attention of the older (he assumed) boy. His stern glare looked straight into the raccoon's eyes, causing him to shiver from a nonexistent wind. Sylvester tried to say something—anything, but he couldn't find the words. There he stood, dominating over all of them—a boy, this _golden enigma_ with power hovering over his shoulders like an ape.

"Who did that?" The feline finally spoke aloud. His voice betrayed his countenance, though induced even more intimidation—it was unnaturally calm, though unmistakably authoritative. His strange accent added to his air of mystery.

"Who did that?" the boy asked–no _demanded._

Before he could answer, one of the boys behind him spoke up in a rushed, uneasy voice

"He did it!" The duck cried, pointing at Sylvester

"W-what, No I didn't!" The kit barked back

"Yeah he did!" The duck cried again, "He was playing ball with us when all of a sudden he threw it at you!"

"Liar!"

"That's what really happened! Right guys?" He looked at his friends

"Right!" they nodded hurriedly

Sylvester sat there dumfounded. Today was just not his day. He looked up at the older boy with pleading eyes, unable to find his voice all of a sudden. They made eye contact again, longer this time. His facial expression made no sudden change, making Sylvester even more anxious. A minute—or an hour—went by and the cat looked back at the duck and his crew.

"Liars," He growled, and walked around Sylvester towards them.

The boys became frantic then. They tried to convince him that they were telling the truth, in vain. Out of panic, they stated to apologize begging for forgiveness. He was just at arms reach of the when someone spoke up.

"Stop!"

The boy stopped, and so did everyone else. They all looked in the direction where the older boy once sat. There stood another cloaked boy; he was a bit smaller, wearing a sleeveless one covering only half his torso. He was oddly dressed; a raggedy purple shirt, baggy black pants, and bandaged feet.

"Stop, Thomas," he spoke again, more timidly as all the attention was on him "It's not worth it. Let's just go, okay?"

The older boy looked at him, then back at the group of cowering boys, then back at the strange boy. He growled at the scared boys then, begrudgingly, walked back to where he sat. "Fine," He huffed, "Let's go then." With that, he walked towards the entrance door—the smaller boy walking behind him—the other kids made room for the two to walk.

As soon as the door closed, it opened again with two of the orphanage's staff member holding it.

"_Heure d'aller enfants!"_ One called

"Recess has ended children, time to return to your classrooms!" the other hollered.

With life brought back in them, the children scampered inside, talking and gossiping amongst themselves, most likely about the conflict previous. Sylvester, still distraught, finally stood up, but nearly lost his balance when someone forcefully bumped into him.

"This isn't over, _vous merde de litte,_" snarled the duck boy, "That brute won't always be there to save you, right fellas?"

"Right!" the other two responded.

"Until next time, _Sylvester._" He snarled his name, and with that, they left, leaving Sylvester to his thoughts.

"What…just happened?"

* * *

><p>'<em>Yes, sweet sanctuary!' <em>

Sylvester plopped down on his bed, face down in his pillow and let out a sigh of relief. After that crazy incident at recess (he was still trying to wrap his head around that one) it seemed like everything took a one-eighty. The teachers weren't as mean to him, and his classmates didn't laugh at him. In fact, they didn't even acknowledge him at all, even when he was struggling with a question. All in all, though, it was a very exhausting day, and Sylvester was glad to be back on his bed, and back in his old clothes.

'_Now if only this pillow was just as comfortable!'_

"Oh, yeah," He spoke, "Ask Damica."

"Ask Damica what?"

Sylvester whipped his head around to see the girl in question standing before him.

"Damica!" He exclaimed. He outstretched his hands to her, which she accepted and greeted him with a warm embraced.

"I missed you too, _mon cher,_" Damica giggled "I would've spoken to you earlier in the last two days, but I didn't want to wake you, knowing you barely slept at the hospital."

"I didn't?" She nodded. Oh, right, he didn't, "That makes a lot of sense, now." He gave her a sheepish grin.

"Why aren't playing with the other children?" She asked, sitting down next to him, "Did you not make any friends?" She gave a sly smile, "Or did you see that _monster_ again?"

'_Oh yeah, I made friends all right,'_ "No it's not that, I made lots of friends!" He lied, ignoring the monster question—which he did not see all day, "I'm just really tired; it's been a long day."

"Understandable," Damica chuckled, letting the third question go unanswered, "Here, I have present for you," She handed him a small paper bag, "I hope it fits."

Sylvester reached in the bag and pulled out a yellow turtleneck sweater. He rubbed apart of it against his cheek, liking the feel of it, "Its soft."

"I made it myself." She replied

'_Wow'_ he thought, his facial expression giving him away. Without another thought, Sylvester took off his old blue shirt and slipped into his new yellow sweater. "Perfect fit!" He announced.

"Ah, good I'm glad!" Damica let out a sigh in relief. She was about to ask if he wanted her to throw his blue shirt out when he put back on, over his yellow one.

"Sylvester," She asked, gaining back the boy's attention, "Tell me, why do you still have that old raggedy thing; do you not like you new clothes?"

"Oh no, its not that!" he replied hurriedly, "Its…"

"Yes?"

"Well…" He paused, "Its just that, my father bought this for me. Its one of the few things he actually bought with his own money."

"_Mon dieu!"_ Damica gasped, "I had no idea, Sylvester, I am so sorry!"

"S'okay, Damica!" Sylvester tried to reassure her, "You didn't mean anything by it!"

"Er, right," Damica replied, composing herself once more, "Well, then, let us change the subject shall we; How was your day, _mon cher?"_

'_A living nightmare'_ "It was great!" _'The teachers hate me'_ "The teacher love me!" _'A group of boys want my head on a stick' _"I played ball with a group of boys today" _'I almost peed myself multiple times'_ "I think I may have a bladder infection, though…"

"_Excusez-moi?"_

'_Whoops, that wasn't supposed to be spoken out loud,'_ "uh, just joking!" He laughed nervously, "But I'm talking too much; what about you, Damica—how was _your_ day?"

* * *

><p>It was midnight, and Sylvester found himself to be the only one awake in the room…again.<p>

Damica and Sylvester talked to each other for a long time. She told him about her day, and he about his in return. He made sure not to mention the incident at recess to her, lest she get worried about him. Besides, he wasn't even sure what exactly _happened_ either; first he was play ball with a group of kids, then the next thing he knew was dodging a ball he wouldn't be able to catch, being blamed for throwing the ball at someone, and almost being in the middle of a fight.

'_Why does everyone hate me here?'_ he asked himself, _'What did I ever do?'_

There were so many generous people back in the slums; they were all a family and cared for one another, especially when his father would provide for them.

'_Why can't things just go back to the way they used to be?'_ he sniffed, _'Just go to sleep, maybe its all a bad dream.' _He forced his eyes shut, forcing himself to sleep. An hour passed and Sylvester shot up with a cold sweat forming on his brow; another nightmare, just as bad as the last one. His sleeping pattern was getting worse—sooner or later, he'd become an insomniac.

'_Maybe if I talk about, the nightmares would stop.'_ But who will listen? Everyone hates him; Damica would listen, but she has a lot on her plate as is—the last thing she needed was to hear his whining. He was about to give up when he remembered something—something Jacques told him while taking him to his room:

"_Don't worry about the little one sleeping on top, He doesn't bother anybody. He's new as well, maybe you should get acquainted with him ––become friends even."_

"Become…friends?" He muttered out loud. The orphan above him, it was that strange orphan with the glowing purple eyes. Weren't they asleep? They weren't when he got there. His mind made up, he sat himself up, and slightly poked the mattress above him. A small "excuse me" escaped his mouth. No answer. He called again, a little louder this time; still no answer. He peers over his bed, trying to look above, "Hello?" he whispered. Silence.

Curiosity got the better of him. Careful not to wake anyone else up, he steps on the ladder in front of the bed, careful not to make too much noise. He looked at the empty bed above him. Surprised and disappointed, Sylvester lied back down on his bed, an empty pit in his stomach was started to form. Maybe he really was alone after all—so, _so_ alone. He felt tears beginning to form, but didn't hold them back. He pulled his blanket over his head, and silently cried himself to sleep.

**-00110-**

Sylvester woke up in a sleepy daze, eyes barely open.

"I gotta pee," He slurred. He got up off his bed and went out the door, making much noise in the process.

"Bathroom, bathroom…" He wandered around; trying to find a bathroom in his half sleep state.

"Bathroom, bathroom…bathroom!" he finally found one after what seemed like hours. He read the sign: SALLE DE BAIN DES FILLES (girls' bathroom)

Sylvester's faced turned red. He couldn't go in there! The boys' latrine had to be close by—he could hold it—

He felt a small moisture form.

…or not. He looked around the hallway, making sure no one was around. He'd already been embarrassed enough that day.

'_Alright, Sylvester,'_ he motivated himself, _'just in and out—no one's around, no one will know—just in and out, just in—'_

"Who's there?"

'_Oh crud!'_

He didn't turn around; he was afraid his blushing face might glow in the dark. However, that attention grabbing voice sounded awfully familiar…

"Oh," a quieter, gentler voice spoke, "It's you…"

Sylvester turned around that time, and gasped. He gapped at the two, as if seeing them for the first time. There in front of him were the two boys from recess, the _golden enigma_ and the boy with violet eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hi there, its been a while. You should already know why I've been absent, since I said so on my page or my latest dA journal, but I'll paste what I wrote there for those who don't:**

_**"There are roughly six ocs that I added into this story. When I first started they were to be in many other future stories, this is not the case anymore, for I realized that these characters are in fact OCs, not FCs. I want my Ocs to be seprate from my fanfiction, and this story is violation of that."**_

**But, as you can see, I've decided to continue this story. This is going to be the ONLY story with my OCs in it, and if you don't see a lot of updates on here, especially in the Spring and Summer (if it runs for that long) its probably because I've started my other Sly Cooper fanfiction (or fan comic) on dA with my FCs William and Roselina. I'm also planning to open up commissions in the summer as well.**

**I don't know well I'll update again, as usual, but on the plus side, one more prologue until the story officially begins **

**Rate and review and all that good stuff; until next time everyone**


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